


All the Belles and Whistles

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: (by accident and then for real), (temporary), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambition, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e08 After the Rain, F/F, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Flash Forward, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, Love Confessions, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: Eloise wants—no,needs—more from her life. Certain that only Lady Whistledown can truly understand, she follows her from the printing press after disrupting the queen's trap.
Relationships: Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington
Comments: 92
Kudos: 199





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, is their ship name "Peneloise"?

Watching the man halt in the alley next to the press, Eloise felt a surge of true accomplishment. She had stopped him, and not just him—the queen! She had dashed the plans of the _queen_ , operating as decisively and effectively as none but Lady Whistledown herself! Her brothers may ride smartly and her elder sister practice piano with all the naturalness of one whose own pale skin has been shaped from the same ivory as the keys while Eloise was put down as a diary-scribbler and promptly dismissed, but this was a tangible triumph.

Only… she could not share it.

For a moment, Eloise stood on the cobblestones, staring as the man she had foiled caught his breath and trudged away with an unkind glare in her direction. The rattle of Lady Whistledown’s carriage was fading. Eloise spun to her driver.

“We must follow her,” she insisted, scampering up into the carriage without assistance.

“Miss… I should return you to the ball.”

He hesitated and she found she had no patience for his qualms. Disobedience, disloyalty… what were these concerns to her? Everyone must choose a side—preferably their own side, she was finding—and as he was already here, he must choose hers.

“My business is not concluded,” Eloise informed him firmly. “I need you to catch up with that carriage. It is of the utmost importance.”

She snapped the door shut and sat inside her plush cave, twisting her fingers in their satin gloves. Had it been enough? Would he believe in her authority and execute her wishes? Oh, to be her sister in this moment! Daphne did not fumble, even in inexperience. Her little missteps only made her a more charming duchess. She could likely command something so simple as a carriage with a mere smile. Ought Eloise to have smiled?

A sudden jolt set the carriage in motion and she thrilled to feel the turn it took down the alleyway, not back in the direction of the Hastings Ball. _Yes_. She was a woman of force and ability! A Bridgerton! She would either dramatically overtake the other carriage before revealing herself to Madame Delacroix as a familiar ally or trail her to her apartment next to the Modiste and rap at her door as the scandal sheet writer’s heart was still calming from her near capture. All would end in the pair of them regaling each other with the same adventurous tale from two different perspectives and offering a giddy stream of congratulations over what could surely be looked upon as their shared success.

Lady Whistledown would understand her. She was, perhaps, the only woman in the ton who could. She would not diminish the value of the swift action Eloise had taken or instruct her to return to the ball. She would not treat Eloise like a child. Imagine—her mother felt that she was sufficiently grown up to debut next season, but could not possibly fathom the other feats her daughter might be capable of. Eloise grinned to herself in secret pride, remembering a moment later to hold her shoulders back so as not to crumple her body or gown. She could bear anything if Lady Whistledown knew her worth and did not cause her to feel undercut or belittled, as she occasionally did in the company of her family and _frequently_ did while stammering through her updates to Queen Charlotte. Was a prospective apprenticeship too much to hope for? Oh, it could not be acknowledged anywhere but between Eloise and Madame Delacroix, but to hone the power of her own pen under the tutelage of one with such a measure of impact on society, that would truly be a thrill.

As the carriage rolled briskly along, she pictured pages flowing with effortless writing. She would sharpen her skills for observation and concision. She would paint a picture so simultaneously lifelike and astonishing that it would shock her readers into action. What kind of action, exactly, Eloise did not know, but that was not a concern for this moment. When the time came, she would know what to say and, at that point, be amply equipped to say it.

Along a dark stretch of road, Eloise caught her reflection in the window; the jewels and band decorating her hair glimmered. What an elegant stranger. The version of herself she saw was not the self she knew. Neither, however, was a young woman who had altered her life and the lives of any future person who may appear in the continued editions of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers by shielding that bold lady from royal censorship. Self-congratulations overwhelmed her once more. Only the sight of her own home approaching could cool Eloise’s pleasure.

Damn it all to hell. The wretched driver was neither pursuing Madame Delacroix nor depositing Eloise back with her mother. He had taken her home, where she would be forced to stew and await judgement until he returned at an unguessable time, conveying the rest of her family. Well, she would not take this lightly. Nor quietly! She would take her only recourse and bully the man that he might display a touch more fidelity the next time. She was determined that there would still be a next time. After tonight’s events, her spirit would not be quelled, her ambitions not squeezed and folded and packed into a box like the impractical cloud of a new gown from the Modiste.

Just as Eloise sank back into her seat with a huff, arms crossed tightly in her sulk, she was forced forward again by the carriage drawing to a stop on the wrong side of the road. So, he meant to punish her by obliging her to walk across the street in the dark. A small pettiness and all the meaner for its triviality.

She felt the tilt of the carriage that signified the driver’s dismount and turned her head away from the door at the handle’s click. He would see her displeasure, never mind that it might encompass unfortunate similarities to the bad behaviour of her youngest siblings.

“Miss, do you not wish to follow her?”

Eloise snapped her head around, meeting the driver’s inquiring expression with one of bafflement.

“Follow her? Follow who?”

“The object of your… chase. She disembarked only as we drew up.”

Not a betrayal! Miraculous! She nodded to him with an appreciative jerk of her head and he stepped quickly back as she sprung to the ground.

Drawing her fluttering wrapper about her, Eloise marched on the Featherington house. Her step hiccupped with a sudden misgiving; whyever would Madame Delacroix flee _here_? What circumstance had made this residence a safe haven for her? Last Eloise had heard from Pen, the Featheringtons and their preferred dressmaker were rather at odds over new dresses or delayed payment or some other silly misunderstanding. True, she had seen the ladies of this house clad in freshly-made gowns only this evening, but whatever quarrel had preceded their fabrication could not have been so hastily and thoroughly resolved as to make the Modiste’s mistress a great favourite with the defensive Baroness Featherington.

What if… what if the figure who had vanished inside were not Lady Whistledown? What if they had somehow dogged the wrong carriage? No, Eloise decided. Impossible. Dumping her at home for a reprimanding by her mother was one thing, but making a fool of her by tricking her into mistakenly confronting Baroness Featherington would cost the Bridgertons’ driver his employment. He would not dare. She darted a look behind her to see him gathering the reins, dutiful enough not to trot off and leave her until she had entered one house or the other. Well. She must not allow her courage to flag within view of an audience.

Something about the carriage that had conveyed Lady Whistledown struck Eloise, niggling her brain, but that brain was too full to properly examine the thought, allowing it to stray beyond imminent recovery. She was excitable, gathering her skirt out of the way of her feet as she flew to the Featheringtons’ front door. Knocking would only disturb the household servants further, and perhaps Madame Delacroix had not alerted them at all. Eloise would likewise slip inside, as though to attend some sort of meeting in shadows, the kind of thing she had pictured her brothers doing when she was a child, failing to understand that the activities of their ‘club’ comprised nothing more than boorish talk and overenthusiastic imbibing. Men were dull creatures, she ruled, pushing inside and catching her gaze on the swirl of a blue cloak as its wearer turned at the intrusion. Whereas women were…

Lady Whistledown lowered her hood and Eloise’s fine new shoes skidded to a stop.


	2. Chapter 2

Penelope found the air she breathed would not quite satisfy the ache of her lungs. Earlier in the evening, her mama had instructed her to be laced too tightly, allowing her new yellow gown the most pleasing drape possible over her trussed form beneath. But that was not the trouble. Eloise had sprung upon her, in the manner of a cat seizing a mouse. It had been enough of a shock to encounter her friend at the printer’s, waving her wildly away from her destination; she had not expected Eloise to follow her home. Behind the fold of her cloak, Penelope crushed the pages intended for Lady Whistledown’s next edition in her suddenly damp fist. Her other hand closed just as tightly around her cream-coloured gloves.

“El,” she breathed, doing her best to smile cheerfully. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I…” Eloise began. “I believe I have made the most ridiculous mistake.”

Though she laughed, confusion constricted her features in the next moment. Penelope was alarmed by the way her friend squinted at her. She could not be studied! Her face would reveal all! The page was her newly discovered barrier between herself and everyone else. Without it, she was meek; she was unsure; she was the Featherington daughter upon whom the fewest hopes had been placed, standing across from a pretty Bridgerton, as she had said herself. How she had lied to this Bridgerton in particular! Penelope’s smile wavered.

“Really?” she inquired. “What would that be? Walking into the wrong house?”

A nervous laugh tittered from her lips.

“No, no, no,” Eloise quickly assured her. “Well, _yes_ , but…” She held up her hands as though to command her surroundings to freeze. The gesture made no difference to Penelope, who had not been able to move anyway. “Where have you just come from?”

“Th-the ball,” Penelope stammered. “Of course.”

“Of course,” her friend repeated at a murmur. “I just saw you there.”

“Quite true. I was permitted to leave early because…”

“Because you were upset!” Eloise guessed, as though it were a clue, a game. If it were, Penelope was on the brink of losing in the most devastating way. Perhaps her feet would obey her. She would retire to her room and fall to anxious, trembling pieces in solitude.

“A little. The best thing for me, I am sure, would be to lie down. I’ll come see you tomorrow,” she promised, swishing her cloak and skirt away as she made for the stairway. Her papers were stuck to her hand.

“Why?”

Her friend’s voice was small and concerned. It stole Penelope’s momentum and she turned.

“What’s that?”

Eloise approached her.

“Why were you upset, Pen? I should have pressed. I should have… followed you.” She frowned and Penelope grew fearful once more.

“Not at all. Tomorrow, then!” she said brightly, gripping the bannister. In the motion, one of her gloves slipped away, but neither girl glanced after it. Eloise grasped the back of her other hand firmly to stay her.

“I conversed with the queen’s secretary.”

“Oh?”

“He divulged the details of a plot. They meant to ensnare Lady Whistledown tonight.”

“I- I certainly hope they haven’t,” Penelope said, swallowing with a dry throat.

Eloise shook her head.

“She got away. I saved her. But… Pen…” Her searching eyes fell on Penelope’s face. “I told you I believed Lady Whistledown to be Madame Delacroix. I was so certain and you did not dissuade me or propose another theory, but then, why would you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Penelope’s pulse was very rapid. She had always considered other ladies’ propensity to swoon to be rather romantic, if contrived, but had never felt close to fainting herself. She did now. It would offer no reprieve though—Eloise would shout for the servants, wait until Penelope revived, and carry right on with her questioning—and so the inclination must be fought. Eloise squeezed her hand. It felt unnatural not to squeeze back.

“I will not underestimate you by convincing myself that you could not be her,” she vowed. “I will only ask that you not lie to me. Are you Lady Whistledown?”

After an internal scramble to turn over any other option, Penelope nodded solemnly.

“But you cannot be!” Eloise erupted, casting Penelope’s hand away. “That would mean you had been lying this entire time! You would not do it! Two identities, Pen! You would not…”

Penelope rotated the wrist attached to the hand Eloise had been holding, revealing the crumpled pages. She thrust them toward her friend.

“Here. Take them.”

“They are… they are not new. You just happen to have…”

“You said you would not underestimate me!” Penelope cried. “If the words from my mouth are not enough, read them here! You have read every one of Whistledown’s words. You will see at once that these are new.”

Eloise’s eyes remained fixed on hers for ages. Finally, she directed them downward. Penelope saw the struggle in her friend’s hand, how it appeared to fight against the very action it was undertaking as Eloise reached to accept the draft of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers. Half of Penelope hoped that she would not look, but then, maybe it was slightly smaller than half because, for good or ill, initiating her dearest friend into her greatest secret could only ease the burden of keeping it, could it not?

As she looked on, fussing with the fastening of her cloak, Eloise seemed to skim the first page.

“Her voice,” she muttered. “Her voice in your hand.”

“I told you. I was confident that you would spot both with ease.”

“And you don’t… you don’t seek to mimic her?” Eloise asked, looking up with pleading eyes. “It is not an exercise to amuse yourself?”

“It is done in earnest,” Penelope said. “I am she.”

With her gloves still on—pale blue, reminding Penelope of moonlight on snow—Eloise creased the papers in half. Her gaze was reproachful.

“You might have told me.”

Penelope let out a gentle scoff.

“I couldn’t tell anyone. They’d think me a fool, or hate me. Both. Becoming Lady Whistledown may not be a commonly recognized method for disgracing oneself and one’s family, but I expect it would accomplish those things all the same.”

“Why do it?”

“You told me your brother posited that _you_ might be Lady Whistledown. How did it feel to be suspected?”

She witnessed Eloise’s mouth open and stay that way awhile before any words came. Her friend looked down as she adjusted her wrapper, tucking it into the crook of her elbow. The ornaments in her hair caught the light and Penelope’s apprehension softened briefly. How she sparkled. Eloise had made such an effort tonight. She was so brave. Since developing her ruthless persona, Penelope had oscillated between bravery and shock at her own willingness to disclose the details of other people’s lives. As long as the secret had been hers alone, she was free of wider judgement. That was the entire purpose! Everyone looking at her and seeing… not her as she was, but an indomitable substitute, someone who didn’t care a whit for the gossip that would be spread about the most infamous gossiper the ton had known. She needed Eloise to understand this too.

Her friend closed her eyes and smiled grimly. She opened them again and spoke.

“I was proud. Flattered. Being Lady Whistledown would mean that I had actually done something of some significance. That my writing was being taken seriously.”

Penelope nodded her encouragement.

“Exactly. So, you see why—”

“My first instinct, Pen, when I thought that Madame Delacroix was writing these—” She rustled the pages in her grasp. “—was to protect her secret. What you’ve been doing is precisely the opposite.”

“But you agree! You admire Lady Whistledown! You cannot do both—protect Whistledown’s secret _and_ those of her subjects.”

“It has always amused me,” Eloise admitted. “Seeing how far she might go. But that was Lady Whistledown writing those things. Now that I know it was you, those subjects cannot remain subjects. They’re people we know. They’re our families. You made sport of Daphne’s debut season. We may do that, the two of us, at home, conjecturing over her romantic prospects, but I was there for the effect of those words. When Lady Whistledown’s pages threw Daphne’s eligibility into question, she was afraid. And Colin?”

“I acted to help Colin,” Penelope said forcefully, even as her voice peaked to something shrill.

Her friend’s clear disappointment was a crippling censure.

“Yes, but at the expense of your cousin, who you knew to be vulnerable. Whether or not I would have chosen differently in your place, I cannot say, but… in this moment…” Eloise shook her head, tilting it back. She blinked, focusing her eyes on Penelope’s and Penelope saw the shine of tears. “I’m not sure I know who you are.”

“Of course you do,” Penelope said in a small voice. “El, please.”

Eloise would not be begged and she would not be stopped. Penelope had no choice but to watch her friend depart with a length of lilac ribbon in her hair and Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers in her hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole bunch of you have subscribed to this fic! Cool! Daunting! I'm excited to have you along as I continue to wade into canon divergence with characters and a time period that are all firsts for me to write.
> 
> Thanks so much to HeyItsSimone, crazystew, calamityyy, and wafflesonface for the kind, motivating comments!!!

_If there is to ever be a grander finish to a season than the one provided by the Duke and Duchess of Hastings this year, this author will need to feast upon her own words._

That was how Lady Whistledown’s final missive began. Eloise had read it through and started from the beginning again more than once, rocking the swing with the heels of her shoes dug into the grass, the hem of her gown sweeping through what dampness the blades had held onto after the clouds quit raining. To close the season by, in essence, _praising_ the couple she had done nothing but hinder over the past weeks…. Why, it was shocking in the worst way. ‘Feast upon her own words’! Eloise released a short laugh of disbelief as she reread the line. She could not imagine Lady Whistledown retracting anything she had written. Penelope had not even been able to muster an apology to deliver to Eloise’s face.

It was the mockery with which she treated everyone that upset Eloise most, as though the rest of the ton lived and breathed and flirted and hoped for the author’s amusement. Most cruel! She did not understand how her friend could consider herself so separate from everyone else that she was able to write about them all as though they were characters in a play, or one of those nonsensical operas Anthony was always scurrying off to. Penelope shared the pressures that were on the rest of them—to do well, to be good, to find themselves in a better position at the end of the social season than they had been at its inception. How could she set their fears apart from her own, to the stage of exposing their flaws with as little care and effort as blowing the puff off a dandelion?

Eloise sighed moonward, idly watching the stars glitter. _Yours truly_ , Lady Whistledown had signed off. To whom did she believe herself to be true? The author was undoubtedly truer to her readers than Penelope was to her most intimate friend, but even Lady Whistledown’s truth was one based on skewed perception and reported partial-verities. Truth was not the point. Penelope chose what to print and what to hold back. All of it was motivated by her own objectives.

Actually, there was more in these few pages tonight to hint at Penelope’s objectives than she made known to Eloise during their walks and private moments when Hyacinth did not come barging in to be included. Where Eloise spoke out, Penelope pulled herself in. For compliance and propriety and every other taxing reason that demanded that they of the fairer sex not have wants or needs. Stirring with the compassion Eloise had ignored out of principle while attempting to view this evening’s revelations unbiasedly, she wondered whether her friend had simply been holding in too much for too long. When she wasn’t permitted to think or feel enough out loud, those years’ worth of unvoiced thoughts and suppressed feelings had splattered spectacularly across a notorious scandal sheet. Was that it?

Eloise wouldn’t pity her friend. First, because Penelope wouldn’t want it, but also because there was too much about what she had done that Eloise envied. To write! To say what she pleased and have people, many people, pour over each word. Considering Penelope and Lady Whistledown as two unconnected individuals, it was quite easy to have sympathy for one and admiration for the other. Was it a failing in Eloise that she could not be happy for the ingenious method her friend had found to become someone of value and importance? Was she in the right to begrudge Penelope those things?

Truth. There was truth in the fact that she yet felt tenderly toward her friend. If Eloise could have known Lady Whistledown’s identity, crammed all of this evening’s ruminations into the few seconds she had had to wave the author’s carriage away from danger, she would still have acted as she had, stepping between Penelope and whatever consequence Queen Charlotte had planned. Eloise’s loyalty to her closest friend in the world could not be negated in a single night.

Well, then, if Penelope were not to be shunned, Eloise would need to find a way forward. She would stick to her friend’s side, no matter what avenue out of this mess presented itself. Pen’s conscience may get the better of her, causing her to either confess to a wider audience or stop. She may persist on her current course, toying and tampering with the lives of those around them as she had thus far, believing herself right and righteous. Eloise would continue to probe for answers and urge her friend to use her influence to help rather than hurt. Penelope had been alone in this. One way or another, she would not be alone any longer. As her sister the Duchess stood by her Duke, as their mother had stood by their father. Not quite like either of those examples, naturally, since the bond between the friends was not matrimonial, but Eloise could not think of anything else she had seen that was as close and as precious as their friendship.

She heard the soft sounds of someone approaching across the lawn. Probably her mother again. She’d been out once, since the family came back from the ball, to advise Eloise to come inside and avoid catching a chill. Eloise had smiled and nodded and been grateful not to be caught smoking.

“I shall only be…” she called out, but let her voice escape into the dark garden.

Her visitor was not her mother, nor Benedict. Penelope—Lady Whistledown herself—strode toward the swings. When she stumbled, grabbing gracelessly at the skirt she had just trod upon, Eloise frowned and stood, placing the pages on the swing. Her friend was distressed; it grew clearer the nearer she came. Expecting that their last conversation had upset Penelope, Eloise marshalled herself to be reasonable but kind, but Pen did not pull up short and hesitate the way she did when they met to make up after their infrequent rows. She barrelled straight into Eloise’s arms.

Eloise caught Penelope and clutched at the back of her cloak in alarmed confusion as they embraced. It was the same light blue garment she’d had on earlier, but now she wore a white nightgown beneath it. What on earth could have propelled Penelope from her bed out into the dark dressed like this? She was trembling as she pulled back and Eloise instinctively kept hold of her hands.

“I know you are cross with me…” Penelope began.

Eloise shook her head fervently.

“I’m here, Pen. Tell me what is the matter.”

“My father…”

Her face scrunched inward like a balled handkerchief, tears squeezing out onto her cheek. It appeared as though it took some measure of courage to force her blue eyes wide once more. Eloise glanced desperately from one to the other; Penelope’s gaze was unnervingly fixed in the low light from the house.

“He’s gone, El. Dead. We’ve just found out. They woke Marina and I to—”

“Dead? No, goodness, how insensitive of me. You needn’t say it again. What a terrible shock for you.”

“And Mama. I am surprised her wails are not audible from here. I had to get away. As we can both guess, she cries more for the loss of security… money…” Penelope grimaced as her sense of propriety rejected such a base topic. Under any other circumstance, Eloise would now rant about the necessity of women speaking openly on financial matters, or laugh at her friend’s decorum. “…than for the loss of Papa, but I cannot blame her,” she went on with a flap of her hand until Eloise snatched it back into her own. “That is the practical side of marriage and, and the responsibility any mother would surely feel to provide for her children following the, the passing of her husband.”

“You do not have to see it that way,” Eloise told her gently. “It wasn’t a business arrangement to you. He was your father.”

Pen’s face handkerchiefed all over again and Eloise tutted helplessly, finally dropping her friend’s hands to put her arms around her, rubbing the smooth fabric of the cloak over her back.

Penelope snuffled and said wetly, “Not that I will ever have a husband or children of my own to offer an opportunity for a full understanding…”

“Hush. Do not make me call you a fool when you are so sad.”

A laugh bubbled from her and Eloise was greatly relieved to hear that Penelope could still make that sound. She thought perhaps she should draw back and allow her friend space to breathe properly. (Would that be right? She was not the best person, or even the best Bridgerton, to handle such a delicate situation. She hated to get it wrong.) As her arms slackened, Penelope sighed softly and held on tighter. Eloise let her head tilt sideways to hold up Penelope’s. The scent of her friend’s loose hair soothed her and she closed her eyes.

“Everything’s going to change,” Penelope whispered. “We’ll have to leave. I don’t know where we’ll go.”

“No!” Eloise exclaimed, tensing and leaning back. This was an outcome she had had no time to contemplate. Penelope gone? They’d been crossing the street to each other since they could walk.

“We are a family of daughters. Someone will be found. Someone who will claim the house and be unfeeling toward our misfortunes.”

“No such a man has any right to exist,” Eloise said hotly. “We’ll do something. We must. I will not just…”

Penelope shook her head steadily. Where Eloise thought she was raising her hands to gesture impassionedly, her friend resolved the motion into embracing her, and so Eloise was yanked forward as she began to speak, her lips skimming the corner of Penelope’s mouth. The girls went stiff in each other’s arms. An instant later, those arms fell.

“I must go home and see what comfort I can be to Mama,” Penelope murmured, looking down.

Eloise searched her face, uncertain about sending her friend away because of one odd moment. But it was likely that she would prefer to grieve with her family tonight. That was all Eloise should think of. All considerations must be directed toward Penelope’s emotional comfort.

“I’ll… I’ll find a solution,” Eloise promised. “I’ll come up with something. I will not let you leave.”

Let Penelope leave was precisely what she had to do for the time being. Pen declined Eloise’s intention to walk with her, and so she stood alone, watching her friend’s red hair bob away and touching her fingers absentmindedly to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm on Tumblr](forasecondtherewedwon.tumblr.com)! Here for all your dramatic, early-19th century, long-distance friendship needs. Pining optional.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penelope this chapter:  
> 

Penelope had never been kissed. Of course, for someone’s lips to land anywhere but on her hand would be unacceptable and would disgrace her. However, not even her _hand_ had been kissed. Twice ever had she been introduced to a man who put himself forward with such a gallant gesture, but by accident or design, his lips had not quite met her glove, leaving a lurching feeling inside her and producing a discomfited blush on her cheeks.

The previous night had been a fitful one for sleep. She had cried the hours away into her pillow, leaving herself no option but to press her hot face into the cool dampness the tears had left, seeking relief in her own despair. It had been a dreadful cycle. Today, she was all pink and swollen beneath her eyes and blotchy about the rest of her countenance. The only relief was that her eyes had dried up sometime between her (remaining) family’s weepy breakfast and preparing to bid farewell to Marina. Penelope sat with her cousin now, thinking about how she had so lately been an unkissed young woman and floundering each time she attempted to ask for guidance.

She hardly felt she deserved it. How differently things would have turned out for Marina had her, ahem, _situation_ not been laid bare by Lady Whistledown. By Penelope. She might now regret the loveless match her actions were sending her cousin into, but she could not unwrite what she had written; at this point, no better outcome for the expectant mother existed. All Penelope could do was pay a sidelong penance, folding Marina’s gowns, ensuring each glove had its mate, and passing them over for her cousin to pack into her trunk. This was the sort of thing a servant would do, but, although Penelope’s mama had softened toward her temporary ward since last night’s terrible news, she was not generous enough to spare anyone.

“Oh, here, allow me to do that,” Penelope fussed, slipping off the side of the bed as Marina began to bend to hunt beneath it for a rogue shoe.

Her cousin nodded and straightened with a grateful sigh. When she arched her back slightly to rid it of the stiffness which hunching over her trunk had caused, Penelope could see the gentle rounding of the belly beneath her white dress. _Baby, with child, love, kiss_ , trickled through her mind, a stream flowing backward. She had attempted to gain information from Marina in the past and now she must try again, for who else was there with the time and inclination to teach her?

She rescued and handed over the shoe. Watching Marina pack it and telling herself that her flushed face was the result of stooping and feeling around for the shoe, Penelope took a tremulous breath and began.

“Did you ever… well, you must have… but, I wonder…?”

“Just ask, Pen,” Marina implored with a tired smile. She swiped a hand over her belly before she appeared to recall that her acknowledgement of the baby growing inside her needn’t be shown in fleeting snatches any longer. At least, not in Penelope’s presence. She settled her hand there and rubbed firmly back and forth. Penelope wondered what it was like, to be with child. She wondered what everything was like.

“What does it feel like to be kissed?” she blurted out.

“I suppose it depends on the kiss.”

“Have you kissed more than one person?”

“No,” Marina snapped, abruptly angry.

“I’m sorry,” Penelope said immediately. “I never thought you had, I just, well… what did you mean?”

Her cousin took a breath and sat on the edge of the bed.

“With George, there was a kiss for every mood. An entire spectrum.” Marina smiled to herself, looking at the hands folded in her lap. “I knew them all and that is how I know I knew him. Despite my later… doubts,” she added in a soured tone, likely recalling the forged letter Penelope’s mama had commissioned Mrs. Varley to compose.

“I see,” Penelope encouraged, taking a seat beside her, though she did not see.

“George’s kisses could be light and absentminded. Quick and playful.” Again, Marina smiled. “Or rough, when… well.” She darted her eyes to Penelope’s rapt expression but did not continue her thought.

“Yes, but I more meant how does it feel on the inside?”

“It felt like he loved me.”

Penelope nodded and sighed. This news complicated things. Was that what she had been feeling? Well, then love felt an awful lot like confusion and a little like the moment before one rolled one’s ankle—the sense that either one’s foot or the ground were not where it ought to be, and that it was too late to change anything, that something had been set in motion and, unless one had something sturdy to grab onto and prevent incident, one must fall. Penelope—fatherless, soon to be forced from her home, no longer alone in her secret of Lady Whistledown—was suddenly without anything suitably sturdy.

“What if the kiss were an accident?” she asked quickly.

“An accident?” Marina frowned. “Has someone _accidentally_ kissed you? Pen, has someone taken advantage of you?”

Though much of their former conviviality had been replaced with distrust lately (thanks in no small part to Penelope’s snooping), her cousin reached out and took her hand.

“No, nothing like that.” Penelope huffed impatiently as Marina persisted in watching her with concern-filled eyes. “I know I am not knowledgeable in the intricacies of romantic affection, but I do understand the difference between a kiss that is welcome and one that is not. Besides,” she said, glancing away, “my inquiries are solely the result of, of scholarly curiosity.”

“Scholarly curiosity?” Marina echoed doubtfully.

“Yes. If I could read about this in a book, I would.” She laughed in a rising tinkle like chandelier crystals striking together.

“Do not go getting yourself into trouble just as I am becoming the sensible one by accepting Phillip.”

“Me?” Penelope laughed again. “Getting into trouble? Could you imagine?”

She had not intended to solicit an answer, but her cousin squinted at her so long in consideration that Penelope shot her a harried look, feeling the assessment.

“You know,” Marina said, “I think I can.”

Penelope swallowed nervously as her cousin withdrew her hand and refocused her attentions on her packing. For several minutes, they filled the trunk together, then, while Marina was scanning the room for any small article that may have been overlooked, Penelope piped up again.

“Will it be a relief to you?” she asked selfishly. “To be married in the traditional way?”

“This,” Marina said, laying a hand upon her belly, “is hardly traditional.”

“But no tricks, I mean. Everything in the open. Is that… is that not better in the end?”

“Honestly…” Her cousin sighed heavily. “It’s all one. Sneaking away to Gretna Green with Colin—” Penelope flinched and smiled to cover it. “—or wedding Phillip in a proper ceremony… what does it matter? No, I _know_ it matters,” she rushed to say. “For my child. For both of our futures, it matters. But I’ll never have George. It’ll never be George. He would’ve done either—Scotland or the chapel that has had Cranes in the congregation for generations. Or something entirely different.”

Penelope’s heart ached, separate from the guilt she felt for slipping a scandal sheet between Marina and Colin. Even Colin—to Penelope, the ideal husband—could not have replaced the person her cousin loved most. Years’ distance would numb the pain of Marina’s loss, but marriage alone was porous and would allow those fruitless, backward-glancing longings to seep through. A holey holy bond. How truly impossible it seemed to find, kiss, and marry the correct person! Penelope’s mama had raised her and her sisters to strive for just the one goal: get a husband. All this social season, that task had required accepting invitations and purchasing new gowns and executing every step of a dance gracefully while having her poor feet tramped on by men with gambling debts and foul breath and illegitimate children and men who were just, frankly, old! Marina and George, for all the mess they’d made, could only appear shining and perfect in comparison. For a brief time, they’d had everything.

She sagged, then realized she must be strong for her cousin and sat up straight with a smile. It was Marina who had the real troubles and uncertain life ahead of her as she married a man she’d only just met. As for the Featherington troubles, well, those were for Penelope’s mama to sort out. She would continue to grieve for her papa, but he was in god’s care now; any suffering he may have experienced was in the past. The only item Penelope need deal with, the only thing not in the past or the responsibility of another, was a stray kiss.

Upon Mr. Crane’s arrival, Penelope’s mama took mercy on Marina, calling a servant to carry her things downstairs and out of the house. Penelope learned that her eyes had been holding a little weeping in reserve, for she cried watching the carriage take Marina away. Her cousin’s leave-taking provoked a tangle of feelings strong enough to conflict with her anguish over her father. The clashing mess of them soon tempered her tears and, by the time she spotted Colin Bridgerton’s departure from her bedroom window, she found she could not shed a single one.


	5. Chapter 5

Eloise fretted as she stroked the horse’s flank. She knew she was holding Benedict up from his day’s business—whatever that may be—but he had annoyed her by speaking of this ‘very good party’ he and Madame Delacroix had attended the previous evening and then proceeding to tell her absolutely nothing about it. Served him right. She was on the point of pestering her brother further by initiating a one-sided conversation with his horse when Benedict elbowed his way between her and the beast and she was forced to stop. She crossed her arms in a huff.

“What?”

“Have you got something to tell me?” Benedict asked, squinting shrewdly at her. Eloise snapped her eyes away.

She laughed unnaturally and pointed at a patch of nothing in the sky beyond Benedict’s shoulder.

“What an unusual bird. Have you ever seen a bird like that? I think I might just go and consult the—”

“No one’s watching,” her brother assured her. He darted a look at their front windows. “Whatever it is, tell me.”

“ _You_ tell _me_ about your mysterious party.”

Benedict coughed and fiddled with his cuff. Now she was the one squinting at him.

“All evening, was it?” she pried. “Must’ve gone rather late as I never heard you get in.”

“Oh, that’s _right_ ,” he said. He grinned triumphantly. “You were awake quite a long time yourself, were you not? Our mother mentioned something about that, how she had concerns enough—what with young Colin bounding off to Greece—and you had to go and sit all night in the garden. Are you ill? Is that the matter?”

“No. I am not ill,” Eloise informed him shortly. She longed to pull a face and run away from her brother’s questions, but those days had fled with her raised hems. “I was only up with Pen. Because, you know, she’d just _heard_.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. Penelope _had_ come to the garden and it _had_ been because of the upsetting news of her father’s death. If Eloise had happened to be there awhile beforehand, reflecting on the personal and moral ramifications of Pen being Lady Whistledown (and awhile after, reflecting on… other matters), well, she could keep her own counsel. Easily.

“Of course,” Benedict said solemnly. “Poor girl. And today cannot feel much kinder than last night.”

Eloise nodded and said, “Marina,” right as her brother said, “Colin.”

“Colin?” She cocked her head in confusion.

Benedict’s expression got caught someplace between frowning at her and smiling with amusement.

“Do not fear betraying your friend’s confidence. Her feelings for Colin have been marked. Perfectly obvious, even to me, and I have not been at my, uh, most observant lately.”

Eloise scoffed, perplexed.

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“Well, she adores him,” her brother stated baldly. “Does she not? Always gazing at him across ballrooms and asking for a quick word, then tripping over her words because she’s too enamored to actually get anything out.”

He laughed good-naturedly and Eloise could not believe how wrongly he had interpreted the situation.

“She has no such feelings for Colin,” she said, sidestepping Benedict and patting the horse rather faster now. “She can’t have. For one thing, she would have told me. For another, Pen is excellent with words. _Excellent_.”

“Perhaps it was a failure of observation on my part,” he offered soothingly.

She longed to needle him on that point, but her mistaken belief that Madame Delacroix was Lady Whistledown made gloating over her brother’s misinterpretation inescapably hypocritical. Eloise forced a smile and twisted to present it to him.

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Had it been you who’d left for the Continent, she’d have missed you far more than she will Colin.”

“’Course she would have. We are friends. The best of. I am dearer to her than Colin could ever be.”

“Undoubtedly. And Penelope certainly knows you much better than she does Colin.”

“Obviously,” Eloise agreed distractedly. She’d begun to imagine herself riding off in Colin’s place; Penelope’s tearful goodbye.

She decided that she would kiss her friend’s hand, just across the knuckles, as Pen had once mentioned she found so dashing. It would be a game between them, the last for a while, though Eloise would write faithfully from Greece on top of recording everyday goings-on in her diary. And what beautiful letters Penelope would surely write back.

“And you her.”

Her brother’s words jolted her from her indulgent daydream.

“What?”

“I was saying that you know her very well, though you seem not to have been listening,” Benedict teased. He plucked her hand away from its frantic petting. “Leave off of that. You’re going to wear a hole in my horse.”

Eloise took a long breath to collect herself, then grinned.

“Wouldn’t want that. You’d have to bother Anthony for permission to borrow the carriage the next time you attend one of these extremely mysterious parties.”

“I never said they were mysterious. I said they were good.”

“If they are not mysterious, tell me about them. One detail.”

Benedict smiled and said, “They are political parties. The only bit like a party is the sherry they serve while we discuss improvements to the city. Maintenance of roads, gardens, things of that sort.”

“Liar,” she accused lightly, stepping back so her brother could mount his horse at last. “And you know, you should take a serious interest in politics. I would, were I older, and a man, and if Mama would allow me,” she trailed off at a mumble.

“Would you? And what would you do?” Benedict asked from above her as he adjusted his grip on the rein.

Eloise smiled up at him.

“Change the world.”

“Starting small then. Most sensible.”

“Get out of my sight,” she laughed.

Inside, she strode into her mother’s bedroom. Francesca was sitting with their mama as she dabbed at her eyes, evidently attempting to make herself presentable again with the Duke and Duchess still visiting. Electing to ignore her mama’s heart-broken state over Colin’s departure, Eloise made her announcement.

“I think I should go to university.”

“Have you still been saying that?” her sister questioned.

“You were not away so very long,” Eloise reminded her. “You expected me to, to set aside my greatest ambition?”

Francesca shrugged and Eloise rolled her eyes, redirecting her attention to their mother.

“Did you hear me? I am going to attend university.”

“Perhaps another day,” was Mama’s weary response.

“Well, then I’m going to see Penelope.”

She did not pause for a reply. Colin was first in her mother’s thoughts at the moment and the only one who might contend with that favour was the lately-returned Francesca. Eloise hadn’t a hope, so she marched back down the stairs. What did it matter, really? Her intention to study at university was both as serious and as unreasonable as ever and there was not the smallest chance of it being actually accomplished. She just liked to state it aloud every so often. Keep it fresh. Keep it in mind. Remind herself that whatever may be troubling her at that moment—such as the idea of Penelope having designs on Colin—was tiny in comparison.

Penelope stepped out her own front door as Eloise crossed the street. In a dress yellower than an egg yolk, her friend drew the eye and Eloise waved out of habit. She halted because it looked as though Penelope was intent on coming to her, moving quickly away from the house. Eloise pushed through the gate and clung to its rails once she was inside. _Colin?_ she thought, watching Penelope approach.

“What a coincidence,” Pen said with an impressive amount of cheer for whatever harrowing scene she had just exited. Eloise could only imagine. “I just told Mama I was going out to play with—I mean, _walk_ with you.”

“Up the street and back, do you think? I know, I know, we oughtn’t to go alone, but it is midmorning for god’s sake and we shan’t be scolded for what we are not caught doing. Both of our families are rather occupied this morning.” She finished with a sympathetic smile.

“I am sure you are right. I say I told Mama, but really, I doubt she noticed.”

“I am so sorry,” Eloise said. “Your mind can have been on nothing else all night.”

Penelope made a little noise of agreement without meeting her eye and they both moved to loop their arm through each other’s as they started down the road. They laughed at the fumble. Pen drew back, pink-cheeked, so Eloise pulled her arm decisively through the crook of her own elbow and patted Pen’s hand with hers. It was meant to be a quick, silly motion, but Penelope’s fingers tensed and Eloise found herself returning the pressure. They proceeded with her left arm providing the link and her right hand holding Pen’s to thoroughly secure her to Eloise’s side.

“Is it as grim in there as I imagine?” she inquired now that her friend was safe in her grip.

The flowers blooming beneath Penelope’s cheeks appeared to wilt as she turned unhealthily pale.

“There are whisperings,” she confessed. “Mama and Varley have sequestered themselves within Papa’s office. I do not know their aim, but the servants have begun to chatter. There is talk of an inheritor.”

“Good lord. I suppose we knew it must happen, but…” Eloise shook her head to dissuade her tongue from unhelpful nattering. “Who?”

“That I do not know. I wish I could help. I can only feel, in retrospect, that I might have done more over the course of the season to find a husband. If I were married now, or even engaged, I would be better able to—”

“You will not blame this on yourself. I will not allow it.”

With apparent reluctance, Penelope nodded and permitted Eloise to steer her back in the direction from which they had come. The previous evening’s rain had tamed the dust of the street. Eloise tried to think only of that—and how she was far less likely to be reprimanded for trailing dirt in on her lowered hem—and put the possibility of Penelope marrying Colin out of her head. But she could not hold it in. Keeping her opinions to herself grated against her every inherent inclination. Just as she was about to burst, her friend spoke instead.

“There is the other option,” Pen ventured.

“What would that be?”

“ _I_ have some money. From… you remember…”

“The scandal sheets!” Eloise said too loudly. She winced at herself.

“Does it upset you to hear me speak about it?”

Penelope had slowed her pace and appeared nervous.

“It is in the open between us now,” Eloise said. “Please. I think it is better if you discuss it freely.”

“Alright. Now, it is not much. I certainly never envisioned using my earnings to support Mama and my sisters, it was really only meant for me. Regardless,” Pen said firmly, “I could offer it. Only then I would need to explain where it had come from.”

Eloise sighed for her friend as they turned in at the Featherington’s gate and wound their way unhurriedly through the garden, heading for the back of the house.

“Do you think I should?” Penelope pressed.

“I cannot be the one to tell you to pick between your family and your independence.”

Looking thoughtful, Pen said, “It is also like choosing between the present and the future. Who can ever know how things will resolve themselves?”

“Both options involve the present,” Eloise argued. “Your best chance for independence is now. Independence and marriage do not go together. How would you ever have independence _and_ be married? What control could Lady Whistledown offer you once you had a husband?”

“Then tell me!” Penelope demanded. “What else is there?”

Heart rising to her throat, Eloise squeezed where their hands were still clasped.


	6. Chapter 6

Penelope took quick steps as Eloise pulled her farther up the lawn, away from the rear door where someone may exit and overhear. Her arm was no longer threaded through her friend’s, but their hands were gripped desperately together. It all made her feel a little out of breath.

“ _Colin_ ,” Eloise said forcefully, whirling on her in a corner spilling over with late-summer flowers. A lattice woven through with the leafy remains of deep pink roses shaded them from the sun and blocked them from view of the house.

“Colin?”

Penelope’s heart sank. Not far, as she had never been very brave in her guess at the intention of Eloise’s misaligned kiss. No greater profundity than that of a birdbath. Just a little _plink_ , that was her heart’s sad drop as her dearest friend proposed that marrying her brother was the best answer to what she should do with her life. Still, she pulled her hand free and reached up to adjust the ribbon in Eloise’s hair. It was lovely; pale blue on chestnut. A significantly sightlier combination than her own red hair trailing down the back of her garish yellow dress.

“Do you really wish to marry him? Is that why you published Marina’s secret, so he would be free to marry you instead?”

Goodness, this was not a conference but a confrontation. Penelope had had her hopes—since the moment Eloise had linked their arms and taken her hand, she’d had them—but she was always doomed to be at sea in the most important moments. Failing to anticipate, failing to understand!

“I-I thought I did,” she said quickly, trying to keep Eloise’s eyes on her own. “I know that what I did, as Lady Whistledown, was treacherous to Marina, not at all the way I ought to have handled things, and that I thought too much of Colin, but I swear! I swear I thought of the rest of you as well! After, as you have said, I nearly ruined Daphne’s prospects, I did not want to see doubt cast upon your family again.”

“But Colin,” Eloise said seriously. “Him. Is he the one you love? Have you been willing him back from his travels already? Have I been the blindest, stupidest friend there ever was because I did not perceive the affection you feel toward him?”

Somehow, they were clutching hands again, all four. Penelope squeezed, leaning close as she strove to keep her voice soft in its earnestness.

“It was fleeting,” she swore. “True, Colin possesses many traits I value. He is good and kind and gallant and generous. A model Bridgerton,” she laughed, “with whom I have been acquainted all my life.”

“So, your feelings cooled when he began courting Marina?”

Smiling, Penelope shook her head.

“All season, I yearned for my affections to be returned, but he did not mark them. As frequently as I sought him out, as much as I put myself between him and my cousin, it seemed not to occur to him that my presence and my solicitude were anything more than friendship. Friendship, of course, is what my affection for Colin had so naturally sprung from.”

“My mama has said that a husband must be a friend. I heard her counselling Daphne about it before she accepted the Duke.”

“I wish that I had heard your mama say that, for such advice might have pushed me toward certain realizations sooner.”

“You would have made your intentions toward my brother clearer months ago?” Eloise interpreted, her eyebrows drawn questioningly together.

“Had I done so and had he understood, you and I might have been sisters now,” Penelope reflected.

Her friend’s visible concern grew more severe at Penelope’s woeful tone.

“You do not want us to be family? Colin—”

“Of course I do,” Penelope promised eagerly. “But if you say your brother’s name again, I shall scream until my lungs burst!”

“I only mentioned him because I needed to know your heart.”

“When have you not?”

Eloise’s smile was wide and abrupt.

“I… I believe there is a possibility that we understand each other.”

“El,” Penelope said, cheeks strained with her own smile, “I want to be sure.”

Up she bounced on her toes to land her mouth directly upon Eloise’s in a kiss that could not be construed as an accident or a mistake. She hoped it was not a mistake. For her it was not, and she kept her determined lips pressed to El’s soft, yielding ones, drawing a harsh breath through her nose, inhaling flowers and golden light.

She pulled back with a smack that seemed to echo ‘round the garden. Blinking rapidly in her sudden self-consciousness, she waited for Eloise to speak.

“Why in god’s name would you kiss me like that?” was what she said. Penelope was awash in horror and a coldness the sun could not combat. Before she was able to stutter out a response, Eloise said, “Honestly, it felt as though you expected me to shove you away or run off.”

“Oh, I am… I beg your pardon?” Penelope asked, flustered.

Eloise gave her a fond look and, teasing her hands out of the tangle, cupped Penelope’s face between them.

“Not in a thousand years would I run from you. Not in ten thousand. I am so, so pleased to hear you do not want to be my sister.”

Penelope’s laugh was smothered by Eloise’s swooping mouth.

She had been correct; it _was_ different when she wasn’t worrying about what the reaction would be. Yet it also felt the same, as Marina had said every kiss between herself and George had. It felt very easy, was what Penelope thought, wrapping her hands around Eloise’s forearms as El continued to cradle her face, their heads repositioning side-to-side as they worked out how to do it best.

Penelope had sighed happily over movements of swift assurance—a man snatching up a lady’s dropped handkerchief, offering his arm with a boldly protruding elbow, applying that long-admired kiss to a hand—but now she relished every uncertain second. Ought she to try to inch up higher so Eloise needn’t hunch down? Was her nose pressing El’s cheek an annoyance? How lightheaded would she allow their prolonged kissing to make her before she would absolutely _have_ _to_ take a breath?

Friendship and husbands and love. They had all seemed too confusing, such an impenetrable world. Penelope knew she had not considered Eloise standing at her side, apart from that world, earlier because she was simply not permitted to. If catching Colin’s eye in a way that made him think of marriage had proved impossible, kissing Eloise was even more impossible than impossible. How was it that she had accomplished the unlikeliest thing? Everything was upside-down and oh, she would associate late summer with Eloise forever and if she could be Lady Whistledown today, she could be near to El always.

“You know that I love you,” Eloise spoke into Penelope’s hair when she had ended the kiss to begin a snug embrace.

Penelope nodded.

“It is all I know for sure.”

“But what on earth will we do?”

She could only lock her arms about Eloise’s waist and keep her expression hidden. The question was a daunting one. Could they not make camp here, at this point, and rest awhile?

Of course not. The limitations were numerous. Penelope was about to be turned out of her family home, which would no longer _be_ the family home, except by whatever brittle, winding string tying their Featherington heritage to the discovered interloper’s. Any day, he would be apprised of his inheritance and descend upon them. The social season had ended and there would therefore be no further scandal sheet sales until next year’s season commenced, depriving Penelope of her modest income. And it was a finicky trade, not strictly moral, and she knew she would need to establish a standard for herself before she began again, so as not to bumble into anything else unfixable without due foresight. Naturally, Eloise could help there, would be highly valuable if willing, but they could not whisper and scheme together as in days past. Penelope desired more than that now, she could not un-want it.

If, after her family’s turmoil, she should still find herself in the city, there was the prickliest matter yet to contend with—their mothers’ desires to see them both find husbands. Eloise was a snow-white sheep doing her very best to appear black to her mother’s eye; would Lady Violet indefinitely tolerate El’s free spirit, content with Daphne’s match and focused on gently guiding her elder sons toward matrimony? Penelope’s mama was already hellbent on locating and acquiring suitors for her daughters. Without Papa to deter the young men and with the Featherington’s newfound financial straits, Mama would grow positively fearsome. Penelope would need to be stronger than she’d ever been until they could do what they wanted.

Maybe.

Maybe.

She held Eloise against her, feeling her breathe.

“Endure,” she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and a happy ending to come!
> 
> Pretty sweet to have nearly 50 subscribers and dozens of new kudos after the last chapter! What'd be **so great** would be a few more comments! Help, I'm out here in the _Bridgerton_ void! (Pastels abound.) Anybody listening?


	7. Chapter 7

_10 years later_

“You are doing the Christian thing, Miss Eloise, no doubt about that,” said the housekeeper, hurrying along at her side, “only, would a boy not be more useful around the property?”

Eloise smiled, stripping off her lace gloves as she strode toward the house. She only wore them when she went into town, to church, and to pay important calls. There was no need within the bounds of her own property. Of all the things recent years had brought, the luxury to not care what people thought was her favourite.

“We do not want the little girl as a member of the staff, Mrs. McKellar,” Eloise reminded the woman gently. “We do not require anything from her. It is about what we can give back.”

“A roof over the poor child’s head,” Mrs. McKellar agreed, trailing Eloise into the vestibule and nearly colliding with her when she bent to stroke one of Penelope’s terriers.

“You’re not meant to be out here,” she chided. “Back inside.”

The dog trotted off ahead of her, presumably to report her safe arrival back home to its mistress.

Eloise straightened and addressed the housekeeper.

“A roof, of course, but she’d have had the same at the orphanage if we had not intervened so soon after the accident that took her parents. We can give her an education.”

Triumphantly, Eloise gripped the fingers of her gloves between her teeth for safekeeping while she wrenched the beribboned hat from her head—a gift from Hyacinth, Christmas last. Mrs. McKellar tsked and tugged them from her mouth, then accepted the hat as Eloise continued into the hallway, touching her hair with a retreating nervousness; the pins would be all in a snarl now. Never mind.

“If more help about the property is required,” she paused again to add, “please inform me. I am most happy to bother Benedict about it in a letter. He has already given us use of this house and I am quite sure he could accommodate one salary’s addition to the expenses.”

“You trouble him, Miss,” Mrs. McKellar scolded with a faint smile.

“Only since the day of my birth.”

With a wink, she left the housekeeper to her duties and went in search of Penelope.

Eloise all but leapt into the parlour, banging the door shut behind her. The noise elicited a bark from the dog who’d already reclaimed its cushion, communal with another, nearly identical dog, who was in possession of an equally foolish visage and equal standing in Penelope’s heart. Eloise raised her arms victorious. Her stance quickly eased the alarmed look from Penelope’s face. The book Pen had dropped upon Eloise’s surprising entrance was forgotten.

“Yes?” Pen demanded, expression expectant.

“Janie shall come to us tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow.”

Her smile was all pleasure and Eloise admired it for that. No apprehension regarding the readiness of the room where the girl would sleep, or whether they had her favourite foods at hand, or if the child would even like the two of them. Of course, Penelope needn’t worry about these things because panic over large, impending changes was Eloise’s domain. Pen could work out the details ages in advance without ever needing to trouble her, while Eloise always saw the forest and very rarely the individual trees within it. It was precisely why Penelope had made such a success of her career as Lady Whistledown, undetected or even suspected for nine seasons, but it was Eloise who’d finally put into motion their plan to re-establish themselves in the country house that had been set aside for Benedict.

They’d made the move last autumn, to the incessant sighing of Baroness Featherington. Poor dear felt rather betrayed by Penelope’s declaration of spinsterdom. Embracing the harshest term had been rather the easiest way to explain it. For Eloise’s mother, the two of them had cautiously described how they wanted to cohabitate as companions, giving their lives over to the pursuit of reading and learning and nature and, in Penelope’s case, dog breeding. There had been many moments over the course of Eloise’s life when she and her mother had utterly failed to understand each other. Nevertheless, Mama had assured her when they spoke, she had always known that Eloise would fly. She had done much to ease Penelope’s mother into accepting the arrangement, frequently sidetracking the worst of her fretting by inquiring after Philippa’s new baby. Now that the pair of them were to bring a child into their own household, perhaps the Baroness would finally warm fully to the situation.

“McKellar has her concerns about the girl’s usefulness,” Eloise stated wryly, retrieving Pen’s book and setting it on a table, “but if she can become accustomed to the way you baby those mongrels—” She flipped a hand in the direction of the furry bodies lazing on the opposite chaise. “—she can certainly accept that we intend to bring Janie up in roughly the same manner as any Featherington or Bridgerton before her. She will not be a hand but an erudite lady.”

She nodded decisively and finally plopped down next to Penelope, snatching up her hand and applying the kiss she always gave its knuckles whenever she got back from anywhere farther than the yard.

“But first, she shall be a little girl,” Pen said giddily, grabbing Eloise’s hand tightly. “Only four years of age at present. Oh, she will love the dogs. When we have our next litter, she can select a pup of her own.”

“You are meant to be _selling_ those dogs,” El complained.

“Hush.”

“My concern is what sort of reading to start her off with. I was thinking perhaps—”

“Do not say Wollstonecraft.”

“Wollstonecraft. Pen,” Eloise whined, “Janie must read Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“Must she at the age of four, my love? Poetry might be more suitable. Only nothing morbid or tedious.”

“None of my favourites,” Eloise grumbled.

“Wordsworth? You enjoy Wordsworth as well as I do, and it is important that she know her modern authors.”

“That is not an unreasonable argument.”

“Thank you. Now cease pretending to sulk,” Pen ordered. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“I have only just returned.”

“Oh, not anywhere special. We shall leave our gloves and hats and things and wander toward the creek. I will take my book and you may read Mama’s latest letter.” Penelope gave her a mischievous look that made Eloise grin before she had even been told its cause. “Evidently, the ton has begun to buzz about when they might expect Lady Whistledown’s first missive of the season.”

Eloise laughed out loud.

“What a shock they will have when it never appears!”

“Temporary,” Penelope said. “There is always another scandal sheet. People will forget Lady Whistledown before long.”

“ _Some_ people.”

Pen kissed her cheek and quickly stood, smoothing her gown and collecting her book.

“Give me a moment to find the letter. I may have left it upstairs.”

Eloise reached for her hand.

“Do not go. I can read it when we retire for bed. In the meantime…” She held up a finger to beg a moment’s patience, then shifted in her seat, digging beneath the cushion she was sitting on with her tongue stuck between her teeth. She yanked free a crumpled edition of the local newspaper.

Penelope released an exasperated sigh.

“Must you _always_ squirrel papers away like that?”

“Yes,” Eloise answered simply, perusing the inside pages to be sure this was the one she wanted. She’d stashed another down the metal thing that housed their fire poker. The system made perfect sense to her. Penelope could keep her tidy bookshelves.

“I never realized you were such a vain person until they began to print your stories,” Pen commented with faux archness.

“You mean _Lord Edward B._ ’s stories.”

Eloise looked up with a smile and folded the paper sharply in half; it was indeed the one she had wanted, the one with the latest story she’d written under her preferred penname. A spirited tale of adventure, set at a university. She’d imagined the whole thing one morning as she shoved orange slices into her mouth and Penelope continually attempted to pass her a napkin.

“And you should talk,” she went on, jumping to her feet. “You were absolutely preening a couple of months ago when they put in two of your romances.”

“There is a market for love stories,” Pen said with her chin up. “I am simply providing what people want to read—flirtation, intrigue, scandal.”

“Ever the great Lady Whistledown. Well, come on.” Eloise offered her arm. “Daylight’s wasting on our last afternoon as spinsters. Tomorrow, we shall be mothers, yoked to our maternal duties, no longer free to—”

Penelope pinched her arm as they left the dogs to their nap and headed out.

“Adopting small Janie was _your_ idea. Your cynicism is entirely put on.”

“God, you’re right. Anthony must never know how close I came to sounding like him.”

“I won’t breathe a word.”

Trooping outside, they made for the high grass, chasing the light that shone through the blades. Their shadows were trains unrolling from the back of their skirts and Eloise swanned forward with exaggerated elegance once they were out of sight of the house, making her lady giggle.

“That is my favourite sound,” she informed Penelope, squinting one eye to block the sun, “in the entire world.”

Her ‘companion,’ her dear friend, her wife (even if just to the two of them) further gratified her with a flush of her cheeks. Her face and hair glowed, vibrant and vital above the drape of her cream-coloured dress.

“You cannot know that,” Pen protested. “You never went on a Grand Tour like your brother.”

Eloise smiled.

“I prefer sharing this place with you. Seeing the world alone is for people who do not have Penelopes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!!  
> 


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